Last Resort (33 page)

‘Tell me then, Mia,’ I continued, ‘when you had that first call from Tommy Coyle on your programme, why did you call me and Alex, and not Cameron?’

‘She did call me,’ he said. ‘I told her to ring you. The threat was against Ignacio; there was nothing I could do to protect him in Polmont, but you could sort it, no problem, and you did.’

‘You didn’t tell me about the third call, though,’ I countered, my eyes still on Mia.

‘What third call?’

‘The one you made to Tommy Coyle, arranging to meet him in the Sheraton.’

‘How did . . .’ she gasped.

‘Because I’m some sort of fucking genius at what I do,’ I replied, blandly. ‘My daughter found out who and what Coyle was; she went to see him pretending to be an author. He bought her line, but he had to cut their meeting short because he had to rush off to see a client in the Sheraton Hotel.’

I saw her flinch. ‘Every time I see that place,’ I went on, ‘every time it’s mentioned to me I have a memory flash. I go back to the nineties, to when we met, and to the first time we had coffee together, when I started to be attracted to you. The venue was your choice, and you chose the lobby in the Sheraton. It was your hangout, you explained, the place you could go where nobody would know you.

‘When I got home from Spain and started to think about the Coyle murder . . . I had a motive for doing that, because it was Alex who found him, otherwise I might not have been bothered . . . the Sheraton link was like a bell in a fire station.

‘So I retraced my daughter’s route to Coyle, and I discovered that Linton Baillie’s editor, a woman named Orpin, had another inquiry about him, just before Alex, from a Scottish-sounding woman who claimed to be a programme researcher. She said she wanted to set up a radio interview. Ms Orpin did what she did with Alex; she gave the caller Coyle’s number.’

‘So what?’ Mia snapped defiantly. I glanced at McCullough. He was leaning forward, frowning for the first time since we’d all met up.

‘When I was chief constable,’ I told her, ‘there was a very short chain between me and Special Branch. A lot of its job is keeping a lookout, and not only around mosques and ethnic restaurants, but at the other end of the scale, big and busy venues where people like you think they’ll blend in with the crowd, and where the security isn’t intrusive. Do I need to go on?’

She nodded.

‘Okay, if you insist. I’ve been to see an old colleague, a man I put in his chair. I’ve seen the CCTV footage from the Sheraton and I’ve seen you, Mia, meeting with Tommy Coyle. Clearly it isn’t a friendly conversation. What did he want?’

She looked at me, with dead eyes, and then she hissed, ‘What else? Money. Twenty thousand to keep the secret about Ignacio being your son.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘That I didn’t have that sort of cash. He said that he was sure you did, and that he’d call me in two days to arrange a handover.’

‘And the very same evening he was conveniently dead.’

‘Yes, and good riddance to him, but I didn’t do it.’

I stared at her and took a deep breath before going on. ‘I know that,’ I exclaimed, dismissively. ‘You’re not capable.’ I turned my attention to Cameron McCullough. ‘But you know a man who knows plenty of men who are. I looked at some more CCTV footage,’ I went on. ‘This lot was from a very obvious camera in the square outside the Sheraton. It shows Coyle leaving, on foot; then a man comes into shot, out of nowhere. He’s much too cute to show his face to the camera. He’s wearing a big heavy coat because it was a cold day, but,’ I smiled, ‘he should have worn a hat as well, for he has a very distinctive head of silver hair. He follows Coyle down Lothian Road, as far as a bus stop, and then they both get on the same bus, Coyle first.’

‘I thought you were retired,’ McCullough said. His tone gave no hint of what he was thinking.

‘I am,’ I replied, ‘otherwise I’d have gone to Lothian Buses and asked to see their CCTV. They have it on their vehicles, and it’s very difficult to hide from.’

I leaned back in my chair. ‘But even if I could identify you, Cameron, it would prove nothing. You didn’t kill Coyle either; no way would you take a risk like that.’ I shook my head. ‘No, this is what I think happened. Late that evening someone went to Coyle’s place. He won’t be on any CCTV either.

‘Before he could do anything, Coyle came out. It could have been mission aborted at that point, if Tommy had got into a car, but he lost his licence nine months ago, so he took the bus, and once again he was followed. He got off in Slateford, and so did the man who was following him, but there will be no record of it, because the bus company’s system isn’t that good.

‘He went into Portland Street, where Linton Baillie had his flat. His pursuer watched him go into a stairway, and then he probably saw the lights go on in a first-floor flat and saw Coyle, drawing the curtains. The street was very quiet that night, so nobody saw the pursuer go into the building.

‘Coyle never heard him open the door, because he had the radio on by then and he was sitting in Linton Baillie’s comfy chair, waiting for his date to arrive, the would-be author that he thought would be an easy touch. No, he never heard a thing, ever again.’

It was McCullough’s time to hold my gaze, as he whispered, ‘You really do believe you’re a fucking genius, don’t you?’

‘I know it,’ I said.

His eyes hardened. ‘But you’re not a cop any more.’

I relaxed in my chair and grinned at him. ‘That’s very true; now ask yourself this, Cameron. Is that a reassuring thought or might it be just a wee bit scary?’

I didn’t give him time to answer; instead I leaned forward. ‘So here’s the situation,’ I continued. ‘I could take this to the SIO in the Coyle investigation. If I could steer my old protégé Jack McGurk in the right direction, that might be no bad thing for him. I have a hunch that in Andy Martin’s new Police Utopia, everything will be measured and judged by statistics, even though we know what they say about those.

‘However, even if I did that, it’s long odds against Jack ever catching the bloke, and suppose he did, it’s absolutely fucking impossible that he could link him to you, because any instruction will have been given at second, third or fourth hand, and your name would be nowhere near it.

‘Because of all that, and because Ignacio’s going to have enough to deal with when he’s released, it stays where it is. Now, please, call your head waiter and let me pay for our excellent lunch.’

McCullough nodded, and reached across to a buzzer on the wall. ‘You can have the staff discount,’ he said.

‘I couldn’t accept that. Full price, please.’

‘Bob,’ Mia exclaimed, ‘if you’re not going to do anything with this theory of yours, what’s all this been about? Is it just a big ego trip for you?’

‘It probably is, in part,’ I admitted freely, ‘but there is a serious side to it. I want you both to know, just in case anyone is worried about Linton Baillie trying the same stunt, that when Tommy Coyle died, so did he. All his stuff, all his research material, that’s gone too. I propose that his whole business, it ends here and now. In the absence of any counter-proposal, I’ll take that as agreed.’

A door behind me opened. I gave the head waiter a credit card, without looking at the bill.

As the man left to fetch his card reader, I saw that McCullough was smiling. ‘Here’s something for you to think on,’ he said, ‘while you’re heading back home. Mia and I are getting married. That means that your son will be my stepson as well. Some fucking irony, eh?’

I nodded agreement. ‘In which case,’ I countered, ‘we’d both better steer him in the same direction.’

It occurred to me to add that if Cameron looked at Ignacio’s history, he should take care to be good to his mother, but I left that unsaid. Instead I paid up, and headed down the road, back to my new, unconstrained, happy family life.

That night after a very light supper, I told Sarah all about my day, to the last detail.

‘Did Mia think that Coyle and Baillie were one and the same?’ she wondered.

‘I didn’t ask her,’ I confessed. ‘However, if she thought that paying him off would have stopped publication, it suggests she did. I couldn’t leave it to chance, though.’

‘Hence your warning to the pair of them. To protect Ben McNeish, I take it?’

‘Yes, although he’s no threat to our boy any more. He’s safe in Polmont, and the secret won’t be a secret for long. I’m going to give June Crampsey a
Saltire
exclusive on the day he’s released.’

‘Will there be problems, with Ignacio being under McCullough’s influence?’ she asked.

‘It’ll always be less than mine,’ I said. ‘I’ll make sure of that.’

‘Good luck with that one,’ she replied. ‘You’ve only known the kid for a few months. You’re both starting from scratch.

‘By the way,’ she added as I pondered the truth of her observation, ‘that came for you in the mail, when you were on the golf course.’ She pointed to a letter in a pale blue envelope, lying on the coffee table.

I picked it up. As I opened it a card fell out, but I let it lie as I took out a single sheet, unfolded it, and saw a clear, handwritten script. There was no heading, only the date. I began to read, murmuring the words aloud:

Dear Bob

This is a blast from the past. I hesitate to contact you on the basis of a brief acquaintanceship; indeed I hope you remember me. However, a certain problem has arisen in my life and I need advice in dealing with it. I wonder if you might be available, in your new status, for consultation on a professional basis.

If you are interested, please call me on the number enclosed.

I laughed out loud. ‘My God, not another,’ I exclaimed.

Then I saw the signature: a tide of memories flow
ed into my mind, and swept me away.